


Having An Average Weekend

by RileyC



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Foot Massage, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:37:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-adventure foot rubs brings epiphany. Or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Having An Average Weekend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanfromfla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fanfromfla).



> This was inspired by several things, chiefly some artwork by Pianolessdevil">. Go to the original LJ to see: [original post](http://rileyc.livejournal.com/668179.html)
> 
> This was also inspired by accounts of the [Montauk Monster](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montauk_Monster) and knowledge that [Tesla](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wardenclyffe_Tower) was set up in roughly the same vicinity. Something longer and more involved was anticipated, storywise, when inspiration first struck. Possibly that may yet happen, but in the meantime there's this.

“Join me?”

Vincent D’Agosta straightened up enough to look over at Pendergast pouring out a generous amount of expensive brandy. He shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

He slumped back down, digging his bare toes into the thick, luxurious plush of the carpet. He not only looked disheveled, he _felt_ disheveled after tearing around all weekend with Pendergast, in pursuit of the Montauk Mutant.

Head propped against the back of the sofa, Vincent asked, “How come I never knew about all this mad scientist, monster-making stuff before we met?”

“I suspect you did,” Pendergast said, his own weariness betrayed mostly by his cultured Southern accent growing more pronounced. “You had the happy option, then, of not believing. Once a reality is experienced, however, we no longer have that refuge.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Vincent felt Pendergast come over to sit beside him, heard him sipping at the brandy. It was so quiet in the old, Beaux Arts mansion on Riverside, the lights turned down and a fire crackling in the fireplace, they could have been marooned on some deserted island, instead of plunked down smack in the middle of Manhattan.

After a couple of minutes of profound silence, he cracked an eye open to check if Pendergast had dozed off. He found the FBI agent awake, and as close to rumpled as Pendergast ever got outside of donning a disguise. Collar open, tie undone, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and the usually immaculately groomed blond hair was looking decidedly mussed. He had even adopted Vincent’s barefoot state.

“What’s amusing?”

Vincent’s smile deepened. “It’s just reassuring to see you looking human.”

Pendergast elevated a dubious eyebrow at that comment, then grimaced, bending over to rub at his legs.

“Still having cramps?”

“So it would seem. Professor Talbot did say muscle spasms would be a side effect of the anti-toxin.”

“Long as you don’t start sprouting fangs and baying at the moon.” Vincent could (almost) joke about it now, but watching Pendergast wrestling with that … thing, had scared the crap out of him. Knowing he had exactly _one_ shot, only the one silver bullet to bring it down with, hadn’t exactly helped to calm his nerves.

“Actually, there’s said to be a strain of lycanthropy running in the Pendergast family, through my great-great granduncle Reynard.”

Vincent stared at him. “They say that, do they?”

Pendergast’s shoulders lifted in a sanguine shrug. “I merely repeat tidbits overheard in passing.” He stretched out his long legs, flexing them, wincing some more.

“Swing ‘em up here,” Vincent said, patting his lap.

Pendergast quirked an eyebrow at him. “My dear Vincent—“

“Come on.”

Silvery eyes narrowed for a moment, then Pendergast sighed and obediently placed his feet in Vincent’s lap. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to.” He hadn’t actually given anyone a foot rub since Laura … but he didn’t want to go back down that road.

He rolled Pendergast’s pants legs up, working on each lean, muscular calf, kneading out the tension, the tightness, rewarded by small, nearly inaudible sounds of pleasure. He glanced at Pendergast, catching him lolling back, one arm resting on the back of the couch, nearly empty brandy snifter dangling from long, white fingers. The silvery eyes were slitted, watching him; thin lips were curved in what, one anyone else, Vincent might peg as a sensual smile.

And why his mind went _there_ …

Vincent shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand and ignore how good it felt to be touching Pendergast like this. Ignore the bare foot pressing against his knee, starting to stroke up and down his own leg…

“Aloysius?”

“You have excellent hands, Vincent.”

“Uhh…”

That foot crept higher, rubbing the inside of his knee, his thigh. “Aloysius, is this another side effect of the toxin?”

“No, no, I don’t believe so. Is it a problem?”

Vincent pondered that question, still working on the right leg, feeling the muscle relaxing. “I don’t think either one of is in any shape to do anything about right now.”

Head cocked slightly, considering that, Pendergast nodded. “You may be correct,” he said, scrunching down against the cushions, “but perhaps it’s worth testing?” He quirked an eyebrow as if issuing a challenge.

Vincent looked at Pendergast sprawled back there, firelight painting shadows on his skin. “You’re not going to bite?”

“Only if you want me to,” Pendergast said, long arms reaching for him.

Vincent let them snag him, draw him down. Of all the crazy things that had happened this weekend, he decided as he kissed Pendergast for the first time, this actually felt like the sanest.

~*~

Proctor, back from his holiday, let himself into the Riverside mansion, anticipating learning what lay behind the curious message he had received from Special Agent Pendergast. _May require large stock of silver bullets; look into it._

Making his way through the house and finding everything in order, Proctor came to a dead stop as he entered the library.

Well.

He retrieved the empty brandy snifter that had dropped to the carpet, shook out a throw and settled it over his employer and Lieutenant D’Agosta, in their rather rumpled state, turned the lights off completely, and quietly closed the door after him.

Finding the _Times_ waiting on the doorstep, he carried it through to the kitchen, spreading it out on the table as he put the kettle on, and sat down to read the front page story, by William Smithback, Jr., recounting the terror wrought by the Montauk Mutant.

It had, apparently, been a fairly average weekend.


End file.
